The Anesthesiologist

It is possible that the anesthesiologist is more mentally diabolical than even the worst kind of doctor (some argue neurosurgeon). And in the case of Lemont Bonwitt, a 35-year-old of some noticeable attractiveness who had escaped from the clutches of the South early on enough in life to avoid the associated accent and mentality, this was entirely true.

The most challenging aspect of any profession in the medical field is how focused, how alert one must remain at all times. Hence, whenever Lemont got the chance to, he would go on a drunken and sexual bender during his off hours. It was his primary release in a life punctuated by so much control. Even his apartment exhibited the signs: black satin sheets (which often received mixed reactions), bare walls, a couch strategically feng shuied in front of the TV. Oh and a box of Magnum condoms on the nightstand. His life was concocting drug cocktails to put people out and having sex with a different woman each night.

On a Monday at approximately 5 p.m., when he was released from the clutches of work after anesthetizing the highest number of people ever–for him–in a single day (sixteen), Lemont was more than prepared to find his next fix. This was precisely why he honed in on a bar where women weren’t particular about who they went home with, in fact expected to go home with someone before the night was over. And though this tended to describe the vast majority of locales in Brooklyn, Lemont knew his best chance for assured success was at The Swan Song, an ominously named watering hole near the English Kills.

Sure, he was a confident man, but the mental wear and tear of drugging people without killing them all day tended to make him lazy when it came to “the hunt.” So Swan Song it was. But tonight, he was having a rare moment of bad luck attracting women. He wasn’t sure if the aura he was exuding was especially sociopathic or if, quite simply, the women around him could sense his desperate need to fuck. Whatever the case, he didn’t have much patience left to keep drinking.

And then, just when he thought it was all over, that his chances for that sweet deliverance called orgasm were null, a fairly attractive girl in her early twenties drunkenly leered toward him and said, “Oh my God, did you hear about that mass shooting?”

It was sort of an unwittingly brilliant opening line that Lemont felt he might be able to use in the future considering the frequency of such an event.

“Um, yeah. It’s terrible…what’s your name?” Lemont asked.

“Kendal. With one ‘L.’ I’m special that way.”

“You certainly seem to be,” smiled Lemont. He was already sizing her up, taking her for another dense damsel who was drinking to forget something traumatic that happened in her childhood.

“Well. I am,” she slurred.

“Do you want another drink?”

“Sure,” she said, eyeing the bartender, a tattooed brunette in her late 30s who could already tell that this duo was going to leave together.

As the bartender approached Kendal to take her next order, Lemont was the one who asserted, “She’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.”

Kendal was too drunk to argue, and even mildly appreciated that she didn’t have to decide on anything for herself. Lemont, on the other hand, was merely calculating–via his intensive anesthetic knowledge–what would work best on Kendal to knock her out based on what she was previously drinking–which seemed to be, for some inexplicable reason, red wine. She was soon to be a goner.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, in fact, she didn’t even seem to notice that he had decided to save money on the way back to his condo in Downtown Brooklyn by using UberPool, and that the person in the front seat was utterly disgusted by the sound of them making out with the distinct gregariousness that only drunk people can.

By the time they reached his lack of identityed apartment, she was gone, checked out. Lemont didn’t feel remorse about this, or that it was anything out of the ordinary, considering that the large bulk of his life was spent around unconscious people, so what was the big deal about entering her if he was using protection? And, in truth, Kendal didn’t really mind. She was in and out enough to experience random moments of pleasure, though the pain of his roughness would only materialize in the morning when dermatological traces of his “ardor” became evident.

But his unexpected kindness in offering to make her an egg white omelet with coffee after she woke up distracted her from the affront. And, in many ways, this was part of Lemont’s subconscious shtick. For no woman could deny the novelty of a man actually preparing her breakfast after a light raping. But Kendal was no spring chicken in terms of experiences such as these, and didn’t even mind the absurdity of the black satin sheets.

When she took a closer look at the minor details of his abode, the only evidence of any personality was the random smattering of culinary magazines on the floor and coffee table. It was clear without even verbally confirming that his true passion was food.

As Kendal pecked at her omelet, she inquired, “So how did you end up in the field of anesthesiology?”

He sighed. “You know, you go down a certain path in life and you can’t turn back anymore. It’s just something I decided to do in college and by the time I realized I wasn’t that interested in it, I had already invested too much time and money.”

She didn’t want to tell him that his life sounded terrible, that she would rather suffer the consequences of being a poverty-stricken ragamuffin than live his so-called luxurious existence in a spartan condo with no ties to anyone or anything except the job. But, of course, she bit her tongue, along with the last of the omelet.

“Well, I guess I better be going,” she offered.

“Why don’t you stay a little longer? I don’t have to be at work for another hour.”

Kendal didn’t really have anywhere to be, and couldn’t seem to come up with a viable enough excuse to leave.

“Um, okay.”

It was then that she suggested, “Would it be all right if I took a shower?”

“Of course,” Lemont agreed. “Let me get you a towel.”

He disappeared into another room, and unbeknownst to Kendal, drenched her entire towel in anesthetic. It was the least he could do to numb the pain he had caused her.

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